


playback (a quiet feeling)

by norikae



Category: Dramarama - Monsta X (Music Video), Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Alternate Realities, Ambiguous/Open Ending, M/M, Time Travel, follow-ups to come hehe, sparring is an expression of EMOTIONS, the character death is mv-canonical, time destabilisation, trauma / description of depressive behaviour, warning for non-graphic description of car crash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-09-21 00:15:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17032623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norikae/pseuds/norikae
Summary: Hyungwon raised his umbrella, and, in a surge of humour, opened it. A weatherman spoke in his mind:Heavy showers are forecast for all afternoon, and, incidentally, for the rest of all time. You are advised to wrap up, and don't forget to stay dry as temperatures drop.He imagined a streetlamp. Its light glistened wetly in reflected puddles, an oil slick sea.It was just as well. The not-streets did get so slippery at night.





	playback (a quiet feeling)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ariesspicy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariesspicy/gifts).



> Hello! Dramarama is an MV that is incredibly dear to me for a number of reasons. I had a lot of fun writing this, and I sincerely hope it meets your expectations.  
> Happy Yuletide, dear ariesspicy! Have a good season (:

Things were falling out of place, now, the wills and dids and should'ves and woulds and coulds and mights careening at cross tangents into each other and crashing and twisting and being set aflame. Then they were wrong, pieces sliding further and further out of hand, a key fitting into an incidental lock, fabric rapidly tearing itself apart and mending and remending mindless of glitches again and again and again.

Being grew further from its rightful paradigm. Fell greater distant, still, crumpling in upon itself and solidifying and melting and disintegrating so rapidly it was impossible to keep track.

Something was burning. A mountain had formed under the sea. Impossibly still was there the indistinct feeling of birdsong. Screwing his eyes shut, he reached out a hand, and pulled.

 

-

 

_October 27th, 2047_

 

The man in the photograph looked familiar.

He had never seen him before, that Hoseok knew for certain. Nor had he seen him in any other photographs beyond the one on this wall, a small portrait dated _8th World Kendo Championships 1991_. He stood in the middle, statuesque, solemn. First place, and no different from the rest of the dojo’s alumni, except -

Except he looked young, there, and appeared only in that photo, and never again. Hoseok attributed the strange pull he felt to this miniature mystery, the way this man - unlike all the others before him and after - had no discernible career trajectory, seemed to bloom into existence and recognition and then blink out immediately after. Every other practitioner could be seen growing into their art, charted by the course of the photographs, but for this one person. It was almost as if he was a glitch, a temporary existence.

Somebody was calling his name. Hoseok stood there for a moment longer, staring at the photograph, retracing the man’s blank, forward stare, the barest hint of a smile visible if you looked hard enough. There was something there. He just wasn’t sure what.

“ - _Captain_ , we have to start drills, come _on_.” It was Seungcheol, two years his junior, bright, reliable, and occasionally completely irreverent. “Everyone’s waiting for you, dude.”

The spell was broken. Hoseok shook off the odd feeling, and was himself again. Turned and tsked, reaching out a hand to ruffle the kid’s hair. “That’s Captain- _nim_ to you, punk,” he joked, lightly punching him in the shoulder as his hand dropped. Pushed him along as he toddled behind him. “Come on, choo choo, lead the way, let’s go.”

Seungcheol made a derisive noise, but Hoseok could hear his big gummy smile as he did so. “You’re a massive baby,” he said, but willingly let himself be manhandled anyway.

Hoseok laughed, punching him lightly in the shoulder. “You’re seriously one to talk,” he jibed, and waved the others into formation as they came into view. Now he had work to do, and the photograph slid to the back of his mind.

 

-

 

_August 14th, 2017_

 

The staff entrance creaked, long-overdue for a re-oiling. A cat entered, and then behind it a man of college age, dark hair tousled and eyes bright despite a stray scratch or two on his defined nose bridge.

“‘Morning, Baby. And good morning to you, Jun, nice of you to turn up.”

The newcomer snorted, getting interrupted by a yawn halfway so the resulting noise sounded remarkably like a cat coughing up a furball. “Her name's _Pot Noodle_ , Minhyuk, how many times do I have to remind you?” Then he fell silent for a moment as he struggled with the staff apron in which he had somehow become helplessly entangled.

“And take that back, I'm employee of the year, bitch.” Arms twisted in the ribbon and straitjacketed by its denim fabric, he paused to coo at Pot Noodle, who meowed uncaringly and slinked off to stake out a spot that would get good sun for the majority of the day.

“We open in two minutes,” Minhyuk pointed out drily, but unfolded his arms and moved towards his coworker anyway. At his approach Junhui ceased his struggling to smile gratefully in preemption at Minhyuk, revealing a row of pure white teeth, replete with a charming snaggletooth for Extra Charm. He made a good case for eschewing corrective dental work.

“You're lucky you're cute,” Minhyuk muttered, untangling his useless coworker swiftly and sending him off with a pat to his behind. “All done. Now go, the bean grinder needs you.”

Junhui beamed. “And the tips jar, you,” he cackled, taking his position. Minhyuk laughed in reply as he flipped the _Closed_ sign on the door, and as the sun came in, so, soon, would the day.

 

 

-

 

_February 24th, 2017_

 

The day was long. Endlessly so.

So had been the one before, and the ones before that, all blurring together into one long haze of _then_. It mattered very little, really, when the passage of time felt so dreadfully pointless, every instance the precise same.

Blinking slowly, Kihyun looked down at his fingers to see that they had turned paper-white, brittle in the last vestiges of winter and a jacket layers too thin. Dimly he thought to himself that he must have forgotten to check the weather that morning, before leaving for work. He didn't remember the morning at all.

In the corner of his vision the display on the security camera monitoring screen announced that it was 1pm. That meant lunch time, he knew.

The small booth that was his post left very little space for navigation. Wriggling his chair backwards just so, Kihyun managed enough space to reach for the sandwich he didn't recall packing, the flask that was probably filled with the coffee he thought he liked. Joohyun had taken him grocery shopping the other day, most likely.

Pulling his sleeves ineffectually over his hands, Kihyun settled back into his spot with his bounty, unscrewing the cap of his flask so he could regain some sensation in his limbs.

On the screen, nothing changed. The air was still, the day was long, and all there was to do was wait.

 

\---

 

His hands were shaking. They shouldn't, he knew, because he had no reason to fear - not yet (he choked back a hysterical laugh) - and perhaps not ever. He could always leave, fall out the way he had in, and try again, every time. It had only hurt a - a little bit. Something like a scream.

But he had to try each timeline. It was impossible to know where sense was hiding and could be coaxed out to catalyse the flipping of rocks, a slow turning of the tide. To halt the water in its endless campaign, resenting again and again the shore.

The problem was that anything could be the key; suddenly overcome, he began to reach blindly out to grasp every object that lay around him, carelessly brushing the surface of his desk, his tools, a letter from somebody he had known in one time, one of countless books he had consulted trying to understand what it was he could do. In his carelessness he knocked over an inkwell and it tipped over, and he watched in rising trepidation as it stained his paper a curious, endless black -

Dreadfully, he forced himself to stop. The answer would not lie with him, he knew. Nor would it be safe to entertain thoughts of singlehandedly achieving regularity. If anything he was the anomaly here - the insanity had to cease. He forcibly pulled himself out of it. His hands were still shaking. With a deep breath Hyungwon picked up a plier, in the other hand a timepiece. There might be hope, yet. He had to find another way.

 

\---

 

_August 18th, 2017_

 

Minhyuk awoke as if surfacing from the water, unaware he had broken through the veil of consciousness until he had fully emerged, mind trailing behind as it chased a thought. Then it was abrupt, like a bucket upended upon him, and he shook his head reflexively, trying to remember what it was it felt so strongly like he had forgotten.

(A laugh, low and boundlessly fond. The touch of a hand, a steady presence on his wrist.)

A dream. There had been something achingly tender about the way the boy had reached for him, and how he had felt his dream-self reach back, a flower unfurling towards the sun. But try as he might he couldn’t remember his face.

(Fingers, twining through his.)

He sat there for a while, face scrunched up in concentration, until finally he decided to let it go, and reluctantly pulled himself out of bed. Already the implacable sense of longing was fading, and it wouldn’t do to be late to work and give Junhui gloating rights for once.

As he got up he instinctively checked his phone, tweeting a perfunctory _im up guyss_ , then, thumbs twiddling for a few moments, adding _had a weird dream._ Then he caught sight of the _6:43am_ displayed cheerfully in the upper right hand of his screen and jolted out of his stupor, rushing to shower and get dressed before the twenty minute bus ride to get to his opening shift at half past seven.

Fifteen minutes later found him settled in place on the quiet bus before he checked his phone again. Three new notifications - two likes and a reply from Junhui. Of course he’d be the only other person awake at this time.

 _@juntime_ **11 min ago** wow ok just say it was about me and go

Eyebrows disappearing into his hairline, Minhyuk exhaled a laugh, tapping out a quick response.

 _@minyoku_ **43s ago** if ur up now id better see you there when i arrive

 _@juntime_ **now** ??? huh??? jun is sleeping sorry he cant read abny of this

Minhyuk smiled absently to himself at the notification that popped up, turning to look out the window at the suburbs as they raced by. At this time the sun hung low in the sky, having barely climbed over the horizon, and cast the low buildings in a hazy glow through the air heavy with dew.

What _had_ the dream been about? He frowned. Already it seemed distant. He recalled only snatches of emotion after having woken - disorientation, a measure of elation, all underlaid by an inexplicable wanting.

But it lay beyond him, a toy forgotten on the highest shelf, and with a start he realised he had to press the button for his stop. Then he was politely excusing himself and disembarking, leaving the disquiet feeling on the bus seat behind him.

 

 

The front door chime tinkled, and when Minhyuk glanced up he instinctively concealed a grin he knew would be mirrored on Junhui’s face, even turned away from him as it was. The newcomer was tall and slim, with perfectly proportioned features - attractive customers were an undeniable perk of the job. He mentally patted himself on the back for being on cashier duty.

“Good _mor_ ning,” he chirped, putting on his best customer service smile. “What can I get for you today?” With his eyes he indicated the menu board above his head, then dropped his gaze to his keyboard, anticipating a reply.

The man’s voice was low, with a softness like it wasn’t often used. “Just an Americano, please.”

“An Americano... Okay.” Minhyuk dragged out the syllables, muttering to himself as he keyed the order into the system, then glanced back up, finally making eye contact with the customer. In an instant it was lost; Minhyuk faltered for a moment, but managed to say, “That’ll be 4,500 won, please!”

He looked so desperately sad.

Wordlessly, the man nodded, handing over exact change. Minhyuk felt the inexplicable need to keep his head bowed as he put the money into the till, giving him the receipt and parroting _please take a seat, I’ll bring your drink to you shortly_. He watched as the customer - who was, he now realised, dressed oddly sombre in a suit - nodded stiffly once, then turned and took the seat closest to the glass facade, not far from where Pot Noodle had curled up in a striking cut of sun.

The morning rush came in. Situated in a university town, _Traveler_ saw a fair amount of student traffic, and Minhyuk quickly became immersed in handling the takeaway crowd, making small talk here and there with the regulars.

Minhyuk was waving photography major Minghao off with his long black and a promise to attend his upcoming exhibition when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the handsome stranger had left with most of the crowd, vacating his table. In his place Pot Noodle had hopped onto his chair, soaking up the remnants of body heat.

He mulled over the deep melancholy he had seen in the man’s eyes as he strode over to the table with a washrag. Had only just lifted the saucer to wipe the table when he saw, in the periphery of his vision, a watch, lying there plain as day.

 _Ah, shit_. Abandoning the rag and cup, Minhyuk grabbed the item and rushed out of the cafe, turning to look left, then right, for its owner, but to no avail. Deathly quiet, the streets were bare.

 

-

 

_March 1st, 2017_

 

Kihyun let himself in through the small side door, and hung his small messenger bag on the hook when he closed it. Took his lunch out - kimbap, today - and stowed it in a drawer for easy access, later. Slipped his timesheet into the outdated manual machine, making himself comfortable in the seat where he’d spent his every day since - since then.

Joohyun had found the job for him. Begged him to give it a try, saying it wouldn’t require him to talk to anyone, and it would get him out of the house, give him a way to take care of himself so she wasn’t constantly worrying over the number of days it had been since anybody had heard from her favourite junior, he could always back out of it if he decided against it, _please, Kihyun, can you just try, for me?_

He had said yes, if only because she had looked so uncharacteristically heartbroken when she said it. All he had wanted to be was left alone in the apartment that was now only his, cluttered with his best friend’s possessions. He hadn’t understood the great sadness that entered her gaze when she’d entered his apartment to find him curled up on the sofa, in the spot that used to be Jooheon’s, phone uncharged for two weeks. He had only known that he hated it.

So Kihyun remembered turning up at the interview, uncomfortable and tightlipped, not knowing what to expect or what to say. The landlord had only looked at him for a good minute, then clapped a hand well-worn with lines on his shoulder. “If you’re sure,” he had said, “You can start on Monday.”

So that had been it. It had quickly become his entire life, and Joohyun was the only person he ever saw anymore. All of his friends had more or less been Jooheon’s first, anyway, and they were right to resent him his continued existence. God knew he did.

Like this a few hours passed, and at the tail end of 12:59 he instinctively reached for the drawer where his lunchbox was, pulling it out and placing it on the desk. The very moment it hit the desktop with a _clack_ , his phone started to buzz in his pocket, where it rested against his thigh. Kihyun glanced at the monitor. 1 pm, on the dot.

He fished it out of his pocket and accepted the call without bothering to check who it was. “Noona?”

“Hey, Kihyunnie,” Joohyun said. She called often enough when she couldn’t drop by. Enough to remind him that he did have a friend. “How’s work?”

He huffed a laugh, humourless but mostly for her benefit. “You know how it is, noona,” he replied, leaning anyway into the familiar, no-nonsense voice as he cracked the lid off the tupperware with his other hand.

“There’s like five tenants, and only two of them seem to ever leave the place.” As if on cue, a shadow passed by, heading up the narrow stairway and into the quarters. He didn’t bother looking up.

“I do know,” she said, laughing quietly, and he let himself relax a little bit, relish the sound of human warmth. “Which is why I was wondering if you’d do me another favour, Kihyun-ah.”

The request piqued his interest as well as his suspicion, and Kihyun took a brief while to answer, chewing on a piece of kimbap as he thought about it. “This doesn’t sound good,” he said instead, stalling the inevitable just for fun. His break was an hour long, anyway.

An amused snort. He could see the expression that must be on her face. “Come _on._ You could at least pretend to have some faith in me.” A pause, then, quieter: “Have I ever lead you wrong, though?”

Kihyun thought about it for a moment, even though he didn’t really have to. It gave him the time for the creature in his chest to lay its head back down. His voice matched hers in gravity when he admitted, “No, never.”

“Stop sounding so serious, you’ll make me cry,” she grumbled, but he knew she knew what he meant. “Anyway. You’ve been working there for - what - over a year now, right?”

“A year and a month,” Kihyun replied automatically, placing another piece of kimbap into his mouth. “What about it?”

“Mmm,” Joohyun said, like she was trying to find the words to say what she wanted. “Well - it’s just - I was just wondering, but.” She sighed, sounding frustrated with herself. “Have you considered pursuing a career in photography?” She let the question hang for a moment, then added, “I know some people.”

The question tugged his heart out of his chest, held it back to him, bare, beating in nobody’s hands. “I haven’t,” he said, and it was the truth, or at least in part so: Because he would have, if he had permitted it of himself.

But he had not made any allowances in a while, and his fine arts degree had been shoved into the back of a cabinet, somewhere, in his half of the house where all he did was sleep.

“I feared as much,” she said, not severely. “But I really mean it. You -” Here she sounded sad again, and he wondered when he would stop being the reason for that. “You did so well in school, I remember your exhibitions - and I don’t want to - I don’t want to pressure you into anything, but.” Over the line he heard the crackle of her inhaling deeply, then exhaling for a long while. “You have so much potential, Kihyun.”

 _Have_. Joohyun always was careful with her words, tactful and seeing too much. He appreciated the deliberately placed connotation that there was something left in him, even after - after the crash that took too much away. “You flatter me, noona,” he mumbled, instead, even as her words stirred some ambition that had for a good while lain dormant somewhere.

“You know I don’t.”

That was the problem. He _had_ been good - still was, even, and loved photography dearly. It lit a flame of hope in his ribcage, licking against the soft flesh of his lungs, flickering towards his heart. He could leave the endless hours of this tiny room, eke out a name and living for himself with work that meant something to him. He was still young. There was time for him, yet. He opened his mouth, but never quite found out what it was he was going to say.

 _Jooheon wanted to be an accountant_ , cooed a voice at the back of his head. _That particular dream certainly went unfulfilled._

“I can’t, noona,” he said instead, words falling like nails down a drainpipe. “I have to go.”

“Kihyun - !”

He felt bad about cutting the call on the one person he had who was on his side, but there was something crawling into his vision now, and when he mechanically shoved another piece of kimbap into his mouth all it tasted like was guilt. He had nearly forgotten.

Abruptly, there was a sharp rap on the window of the booth, and when Kihyun turned to look a slender hand, bracketed in a blazer, slipped into the gap left for making payments, pushing something in towards him.

When the hand withdrew it revealed what strongly resembled a watch, although with a strangely intricate face; instinctively grabbing it, and confused, it was all Kihyun could do to crane his neck to try to peek out at the stranger. But all he caught sight of was a slight silhouette cutting a long dark line into the harsh spring light.

Even as the gash grew smaller and vanished he watched the distance for a while, since there was nothing else to do besides wait. Perhaps the man would come back, and it would turn out to be a mistake, or some bizarre hidden camera. He knew that happened sometimes.

But no phantom reappeared to offer an explanation. As he packed up that evening at six, the timepiece lay in his pocket, burning a hole with its curious weight, as if it held some kind of secret.

 

-

 

_November 7th, 2047_

Hoseok left practice with a poorly concealed sigh, taking only the time to replace his _kendogu_ with clean sweats and track shoes before hauling his backpack over one shoulder and leaving school as quickly as possible, offering his team a perfunctory round of greetings as he slipped out.

Outside the streets were bare and grey, and winter had begun to bite. He sank further into the comfort of the lining of his long coat, and walked faster, wanting to quickly return to his apartment to properly wash off the day.

Usually, he would hang back after practice, talking to his team. It was something like a duty of his, and he had been told it made him a good captain, dutiful, present for his members. He didn’t mind it. Not normally. But today he had felt worn, and every interaction had grated, and so he wanted to be alone as quickly as possible.

It wasn’t that practice had been particularly difficult. Neither was it a matter of school pressure, it being only in the middle of the semester; and even though he had a goal to place again at the World Championships, those were ten months away, in the fall semester of his last year. He would compete, even after he had handed club presidentship to the next batch, and hopefully he would secure a scout for a fulltime dojo with his performance then. It was all relatively straightforward.

Maybe that was the problem. Something itched in the way all his decisions seemed to have been made for him. Logically, he knew he was privileged to have so much made so coherent, and it would be ungrateful to complain. But reasoning did nothing to help him shake the feeling of playing a role, a geostationary satellite set on a well-worn orbit. It tugged at the edges of his skin, and made him restless.

He shook himself out of thought - in a while he had come to his apartment complex. Hoseok bent patiently to allow the scanner to verify his iris, and then took the stairs two floors to his apartment, the door sliding unlocked under the lines of his hand. Letting out a relieved sigh as he tugged off his shoes and kicked them aside, it took him a moment to register the parcel sitting on his living room table, small as it was, and wrapped in nondescript brown paper.

Which was, in itself, strange, because paper was an oddity now, long outdated into redundancy. Quickly his exhaustion fled to the back of his mind, making way instead for curiosity. Hoseok set his bag down absently as he approached the sleek polished chrome, squinting at it as he did, tentative.

“How the hell…” he mumbled, peering at it from what he determined was a safe distance. The apartment was secured by layers of biometric security, enough to make it a genuine bother for a petty thief to get in. It made even less sense that something had been _delivered_ \- the thought then crossed his mind that it could be dangerous. _But then again_ , he mulled, _Am I really important enough to warrant a personally delivered threat?_

The thought was assurance enough to encourage him to inch a bit closer, from which vantage point he could make out handwriting, neatly printed in ink that wasn’t necessary anymore. Hoseok raised his brows as he abandoned caution and picked up the bulky envelope, reading the slightly unfamiliar Korean script haltingly.

_Use it well._

Something about the finality of the statement knocked the air out of him, and it was with quivering hands that he fumbled with the waxy paper, unaccustomed to its structure and feel. But soon he had torn off one sealed side, and the hand that reached in closed around a cool disc of metal. Pulled it out to find that leather straps lay on either side of a gleaming face.

One with a myriad of interlocking, shifting analogue displays; A watch that did not condescend to tell the time.  In his palm, as it lay, it looked so quaint - a thing of the recent past, and no more than a novelty. But it thrummed with an energy that belied its plain appearance; slowly recovering from the shock, Hoseok huffed out a laugh that was equal parts humour and disbelief.

He knew what it was.

 

\---

 

This, then, was how the cards had fallen to be dealt. He was at best the unwilling dealer in a game he wasn’t allowed to play, where no one had been allowed to sight the rules.

He had done his best. Tested prototypes by releasing them to the wind, silently praying for the forgiveness of those whom time had taken because of his error. Adjusted, and readjusted, cheating for an extra hour, or day, or year, until his hands were bleeding and his vision was tripling and still, still he couldn’t be certain it hadn’t all gone to waste.

Sometimes he thought he heard their cries.

But on every other level time was running out, and there were still countless other chronological configurations to try. He could not afford to delay any longer - no sleight of hand would still its passage, a heavy pull, a crashing tide.

He took a deep breath, and stepped out of the sun. He could only pray that they would play right.

 

\---

 

_March 2nd, 2017_

 

Kihyun arrived at work exactly seven minutes before his shift started, the same way he always did. Hung up his bag on the hook at the back of the door, pulled his lunchbox out (Thursdays were a simple affair of kimchi, pork, and white rice), and put it in the drawer, second from the top on his right side. Dropped his timesheet into the wallmounted relic that still manually stamped the time on the card, another _07 53_ in a long, slightly misaligned row of _07 53_ s before it. He wiggled the chair out, then sat down.

And waited.

Kihyun watched as the clock on his phone screen ticked _7.54am,_ and scratched at his left hand with his right. Tugged uncomfortably once, twice, at the collar of a sweater that felt far smaller than it had the day before, hoping to ease the buzz that had started up all over his body, prickling just beneath the surface of his skin.

The distance between seconds felt far too long.

Halfway through the minute he abruptly got up, reasoning that he had just over five minutes before his shift started, anyway, and went to his bag, where he had transferred the watch after he had gotten home, not knowing what to do with it but unwilling to let it out of his sight. Pulled it out, and brought it to his station, where the weak morning sun danced on its surface, white.

He couldn’t make sense of it. What kind of watch only told the year, anyway? Yet its surface bore other dials, spinning this way and then that, charting something he couldn’t quite make out.   _And why would somebody just give this to m-_

His train of thought was interrupted when he noticed a dial, the sort usually meant for adjusting the display of any other timepiece. Touch light, Kihyun pulled at it and it slid outwards smoothly. Then, mind half not his own, he turned the knob, and watched in a trance as _2017_ dropped down to _2016,_ then _2015_. As if in response to his adjustments the hands of the other displays began to spin erratically.

He paused. Let himself imagine for one wild, careless moment that the year display meant something, that this ordinary looking item in his grasp could give him a second chance. That if he confirmed the setting, time would bend, and he could see Jooheon again.

Kihyun looked up. The monitor showed _7.59am_.

Why not?

 

-

 

_November 7th, 2047_

 

All his senses were on high alert. Hoseok had heard of these devices - there had recently been reported instances of people across time going missing, leaving nothing but these behind. In haste the government had outlawed their use or transaction, citing public safety as the number one concern. Enforcement had been on a case by case basis; their maker remained at large and unknown, but for the inscription of initials on each watch.

As if on cue, the radio flickered to life, a nationwide broadcast playing. _Time warp is not allowed. Do not take any watches from C.H.W. You are reminded that to do so would be a contravention of the 38th Act in Support of Public Safety and Prevention of Terrorism 2047. Offenders will be liable upon conviction to a fine, or imprisonment of up to 1 million won, or both_.

As if hypnotised, Hoseok turned it over in his hands. There it was - engraved delicately on the back of the metal, in neatly printed letters. _C.H.W._

He laughed again to himself, a barking scoff. Surely, common sense would dictate that he should turn it in to the authorities, and carry on with his life as if this had never happened. But as he smoothed a thumb over its surface he thought suddenly of the man in the photograph, realising with a jolt that he had the power to find the answers to his questions. It could be so simple.

Inertia dislodged itself. He loosened the dial, and took his time adjusting the year to _1991_. With each click his blood began to roar in his ears, a rising noise reminding him of the weight of what it was he was about to do.

But it had been a long time since he had allowed himself to be careless. After all, he reasoned, what could go wrong?

 

-

 

_August 18th, 2017_

 

He had waited all day, but the man had not come back for his watch, which was odd, considering that it looked expensive. Or so he figured, anyway - a barista’s pay didn’t exactly allow for an encyclopedic knowledge of luxury timewear. Minhyuk hummed, off-tune, to himself, as he locked up in the evening, pocketing the keys when he was done.

_(You were the brightest shade of sun I had ever seen…)_

Slowly, he made his way to the bus stop for his homebound journey, watch stowed carelessly in his coat pocket. Then, seized by some suddenly insurmountable curiosity, he took it out and peered at it in his hands, examining it under streetlight fluorescence.

Despite being, for all intents and purposes, a watch, it had four wheels forming the year where usually a date display might be, and no master hour or minute hand or otherwise indicative markings. Minhyuk fumbled for the adjustment dial, just to see what it would do, and couldn’t help the small giggle of amusement he made when he found that it did, as he had suspected, adjust the year display. What a strange watch.

When an idle glance upwards revealed that the bus was still nowhere in sight, Minhyuk focused his attention back on the watch, and twiddled the dial. Turned it down, watching the number tick backwards, until it read his birth year. Paused for a moment, then turned it further, display clicking _1992, 1991, 1990, 1989, 1988…_

1974 sounded nice. Minhyuk stopped, and admired the way it looked on the old-timey watch surface. Something about it felt right. His thumb hovered over the knob.

 

\--

 

_Everywhen_

He took a deep breath, and pressed the dial until there was a click.

 

\--

 

_July 18th, 1991_

 

Hoseok tripped into the locker room, and had to brace himself against the wooden cabinets to break his fall. The resounding _crash_ he created would've been enough to earn him locker room duty for a week, if his coach had been around to reprimand him. Except…

Except the space he knew was completely different. He knew, as a concept, that their dojo had stood in place for hundreds of years, and so - despite the devotion with which it had been maintained in a similar fashion throughout time - there was nary a possibility that it would have remained exactly the same.

Still he felt a sense of genuine disorientation as he looked about the interior, where plain wood lockers snaked about in a configuration perpendicular to that of 2047, each far narrower such that the numbers embossed neatly in copper on the upper right hand of each door ran nearly to a hundred. In old Hangul a sign indicated _showers_ where in his time there was smooth plaster; conversely the walls bore nothing but calligraphed scrolls where Hoseok expected to find a storeroom for spare equipment.

As he calmed down the emptiness of the room became quickly apparent, and he heard clearly his own shallow, tiny breaths, the way they bounced off the low ceiling and wood before eventually being eaten by the walls. Glanced down at the watch he finally remembered he was holding, just to be sure, and -

_1991._

Instinctively he ran a hand through his hair, at an abrupt loss for what to do. Then he looked at the cubby hole in front of him, whose door lay slightly ajar from where he had knocked into it, and thought, _Well, what do I have to lose?_

He had just pulled on the robe and was reaching into the locker for the chestplate when there was a sound of quiet but brisk footsteps approaching. Hoseok stilled, mid-garbing, and tried to think of how he might best explain himself. The enrolment seemed large - maybe if he pretended to be a new member the newcomer wouldn't notice. Or maybe he would luck out and the person would be a janitor, unconcerned as to whether he was meant to be there or not.

“You're not Injun,” said a voice, closer than he had expected. “What are you doing at his locker?”

Caught, Hoseok looked up, mind scrambling to find a sentence to push out of his lips in response. But then their eyes met, and he felt it all leave him at once - the preemptive embarrassment, the tension, the breath he hadn't been aware was lodged in his throat.

The photograph, limned in secondhand light, came instantly to mind.

 _World Kendo Championship, 1991_.

 

-

 

_March 8th, 1974_

 

Minhyuk fell into time with a jolt, like he was something elastic that had been pulled impossibly thin through a needle's eye, narrowing further and further before snapping back altogether violently. He startled into this present, blinking in a rapid series as he tried to process where he was and what he was seeing.

Concrete, mainly - weathered blocks made of them, towering above him in every direction. Beyond them he thought he caught flashes of other similar blocks, what might be governmental housing sprawling beyond where he was, dividing up a greyly lit sky - and then suddenly there was a crack, like the splitting of something great, and Minhyuk spun around so quickly he felt something in his neck protest.

Into a plot of space not five metres from him appeared three men, suited and sombre, eyes hidden behind tinted glass. Unlike him they seemed to walk fluidly out of the tear in time and straight into 1974, and when they made eye contact Minhyuk instantly knew, without understanding why, that there was only one option for him.

_Run._

Spinning on his heel, Minhyuk picked the first opening he saw and ran straight towards it, mystery watch clutched deathly tight in his hand.

As he sprinted for his life Minhyuk could make out, here and there, snatches of Mandarin characters, on printed signs littering the alleys, scrawled in sprawling lines across the wall surfaces that were more ink than paint. Faintly he recalled Hanja lessons, and a family holiday in the December of 2015. _Hong Kong?_

He thought he could hear them behind him, and suddenly fear fed on his adrenaline, seizing his throat and rattling it about. Would he be punished for time travel? Killed? His pace faltered. It would be terribly pathetic to die for his curiosity.

Then a hand shot out of nowhere and locked around his arm, tugging him none too gently down a small sidestreet. Minhyuk muffled his instinctive noise of shock with the heel of his other hand and let the person pull him, following as best as he could with legs that were beginning to tire. All that was visible of his temporary captor was ash brown hair and young, vaguely fashionable clothing across a wide back, tan fingers wrapped around his wrist. Minhyuk inhaled a bit too sharply when he noticed, heart athunder in his chest. _That hand…_

After what felt like an infinity (he mentally snorted, thinking of the watch still gripped in his fingers) they came to a rest between a pile of boxes, breaths heaving and uneven. The place was a veritable labyrinth, or so it felt: Minhyuk knew he would not be able to even begin to retrace his steps to the start point.

Ten, maybe twenty, deep, staggering intakes of air later, when his pulse was slowly returning to itself, it occurred that he should thank his unlikely saviour. When he properly got a look at him, though, Minhyuk felt the colour rise high into his cheeks, his bravado falling out of his mouth and into the still, cold air around them.

(When he laughed he threw his head back, and the sound was like the sun.)

“Hi,” the boy said, smiling a soft, clean smile. “I'm Changkyun.”

 

-

 

_December 15th, 2015_

 

He stood by the roadside, casting a gaze around for the antique store he'd been told was around here somewhere. The blogs had told him it wasn't _too_ far in, something like a ten minute's walk in from the highway, but to be careful to pick the right direction, because _trust us, it's easy to get lost in all that wheat!_

Here the stalks grew golden and tall, and if only his data would load, and tell him whether to head in or against the direction of the traffic - the glare of the sun was harsh against his screen, and Kihyun felt his brow furrow in agitation, as he tried to angle the screen so that he would be able to see.

_Oh. This dream again._

He knew what to expect. Like a song played on record over and over, this exact scenario visited him every night. Because Jooheon had dropped him off, on his way into the neighbouring town to do some long-overdue shopping, and had promised that he would drop by on his way back, too, to pick him up. Because they were best friends, and flatmates, and Kihyun never did like driving, and Jooheon had always been -

_Jooheon - !_

It hit him all at once. Kihyun was running before he was aware that that was what he was doing, the anxiety a fire alarm screaming shrill in his head. If he could just get there - if he could make Jooheon stop, turn back, get out of the car, anything -

(In this story, somebody dies.)

His eyes burned, but he did not cry. He had done that so many times there was nothing of it left, and as he slowed to a halt and felt sick by the fields the watch in his grip felt heavy, a spoken promise resting in too-small hands.

Shakily he cupped it to himself, still cursing the glare of the sun. Pulled out the pin, rewinding it and watching as the little faces spun, hoping they would hear him, give him another second, minute, hour to try.

Again.

 

\---

 

The space that he went to, when he was not in time, was dreadfully quiet. Rain always seemed to fall, there, except it was never _going_ anywhere, just existed a certain way one moment and another the very next. It had taken a while to get used to, but if there was one thing he had for himself it was time.

He was there, now, unable to hold still in any of their timelines at the present. He would try again later. Around him the raindrops might have been falling upwards.

Hyungwon raised his umbrella, and, in a surge of humour, opened it. A weatherman spoke in his mind: _Heavy showers are forecast for all afternoon, and, incidentally, for the rest of all time. You are advised to wrap up, and don't forget to stay dry as temperatures drop_.

He imagined a streetlamp. Its light glistened wetly in reflected puddles, an oil slick sea.

It was just as well. The not-streets did get so slippery at night.

 

\---

 

_March 8th, 1974_

 

“Hey,” he said eventually, when he had found his voice, “Minhyuk.” A pause, then he added, “That’s me, I mean.” Laughing nervously, Minhyuk startled when the boy took his hand, and then immediately dropped it.

“Sorry - sorry,” he said, coughing to hide an evident embarrassment, “I just - you held it out, and I thought you - handshake? Isn’t that what it normally means, ah, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I, um,” and his hands were shoved into his pockets now, and he was looking everywhere but at Minhyuk, “Sorry, I think I’m making it worse. I talk a lot when I’m nervous - uh, I shouldn’t have. Said that, now you know I’m nervous, that could be weird when you’ve just met me - I -”

Minhyuk cut him off with the laugh that erupted, and then instantly felt bad. “It’s okay,” he offered, clapping a hand over his own mouth, “It really - I did hold my hand out, but it was like, I didn’t even realise I was doing it, you know - reflex - and then I was surprised when you took it.” He paused, then smiled sheepishly by way of apology. “Which is stupid, I know, but I’m a little bit dumb…”

He wasn’t sure where it was he was trying to go with this, but felt a sort of relief when the line of mystery boy’s - Changkyun’s - shoulders seemed to relax, and then he was just looking at him, and he was looking back, and there fell upon them a silence that Minhyuk wasn’t sure what to do with.

“You have a nice voice,” he blurted out suddenly, after he had counted to fifteen and the quiet hadn’t been broken by either of them, or one of the suited men, whom he knew wouldn’t be giving up so easily.

When Changkyun raised his eyebrows, they moved as if of their own accord into his fringe, separating from the rest of his face. “Really,” he asked, mouth quirked, “Thanks. Yours isn’t too bad, either.” Minhyuk smiled back, automatically, but then found he had nothing else to say, still winded by a variety of factors.

Changkyun, clearly, decided to call one of those into question. “So,” he started, dragging out the syllable until it dissipated into a vocal fry, “If you don’t mind my asking. Why were you being chased?”

The smile grafted onto his face dimmed. “Well.”

“Mhmm?” A head cocked in question. It made him look gentle, puppy-like, and Minhyuk had to look away to quell the sudden surge of affection that threatened to emerge unbidden.

“It’s kind of a long story,” Minhyuk tried. “I guess - well - first, you can look at this. And then decide if you want to believe me, or listen, after that.” He brought the watch into both of his hands, then fiddled with it, watching the way it glinted just barely in the leftover light.

Changkyun let out a low hum, more of a tuned exhale than anything. Looked the corridors up and down, and shrugged, settling comfortably into the dirt and concrete. Then he leaned back, and held a hand out to Minhyuk, gaze gentling as he did.

“I have time.”

 

-

 

_December 15th, 2015_

 

The second time, he found his footing a moment earlier. But it was like struggling to wake from a dream, again, and as he looked up and down the highway he found his mind preoccupied with _which direction do I go_ and _I wonder if they’ll have the Rolliflex those forums were talking about_ -

Jooheon.

He remembered, in a rush, and then began to run in the direction of the road, knowing without even really seeing which way it had been, as if - well - because he had been here before. The back of the black Hyundai was a beacon he raced towards, heart in his throat, a great storm in his chest.

It veered off the road. Frame by frame, he watched as the car with Jooheon in it upended itself, landing on its roof, caving in so it would be impossible for anyone to survive.

It had been a closed-casket funeral.

Out of breath, he brought the watch out, hands shaking so madly it was all he could do to effect the motions that were becoming familiar. He squeezed his eyes shut as he pressed the dial, and leaned into the fall.

 

-

 

_July 18th, 1991_

 

He was tall, and carried himself with an unmistakable air of authority. Even then, staring a mystery intruder down and waiting for an answer, he seemed kind. Despite the entire situation his eyes were warm, and instinctively Hoseok knew that he would listen to what he had to say.

“It’s kind of mad, actually,” he said, slowly, in the Korean he had learned so painstakingly in high school. He could feel the man’s intrigue at the way he spoke haltingly in what should have been a native tongue. “And I know you have questions.”

Then he was emboldened by the watch secure around his wrist, pushed up so it wasn’t visible, being technically against uniform rules. If things went poorly he could always just timewarp back. “I’ll answer them, but only if you spar with me.” He raised his gaze in a challenge, the one he knew intimidated opponents even through the mesh of a mask.

It was with very little surprise that he was met with a look that matched his in weight. “You would appear out of nowhere and ask this of me,” he said, evenly. Formally. “But very well. Dress yourself. I will see you outside.”

Then he was gone, and Hoseok was left alone in the locker room, in the still blue light of dusk.

 

\---

 

Changkyun and Minhyuk had found each other. That was fine. Good, even - there was very little else he could say, or expect, otherwise. It was just as well - with the Timeguard aware of his existence, and on their heels in that timeline, there was very little he would be able to do for them.

The same went for Hoseok and Hyunwoo. If the pieces fell correctly their connection might be the key to returning them to the initial paradigm. Hoseok was the furthest ahead in time, and needed, he hypothesised, to be tethered back down. Perhaps this would be the way to do it. Hyungwon could only wish he had a way to be sure.

But Kihyun -

The Kihyun he knew was a chemical flame, furiously bright, awash in colour. Here he seemed to deaden with every cycle, alight first by a chance, dimming with every failure. It tore him apart to see. Hyungwon turned a watch over in his hand, considering it slowly.

 _Surely_ , he thought, _Surely there must be something I can do_.

 

\---

 

_December 15th, 2015_

 

The third time, he was taking a step forward before he really landed. He ran as hard as he could, anticipating the car, anticipating the crash.

(“You’re such a fucking nerd,” Jooheon had said, absently checking the mirror as he changed lanes. “You’re going to be eaten by a cornfield ghost just because you like cameras so much.”

“I am not,” Kihyun had protested weakly, because he most certainly was, and knew it. “I don’t think ghosts come out in the daytime. And they’re wheat fields, anyway, all that lurks in _those_ are farmers.”

“If you say so,” Jooheon had said, dubiously, pulling up by the side of the road. “Don’t come begging me for help when they get you.”

He had cackled in response. “Sure thing,” he recalled tossing back, as he opened the passenger door. “Thanks, anyway. See you later.”

“Yeah,” Jooheon had said as he pulled away, winding the window up, “Three pm, don’t forget.”)

He had been right about the ghosts, after all. Just not in the way he’d expected.

 

-

 

_July 18th, 1991_

 

The ceiling looked the same as it did in 2047. Hoseok tried to focus on that thought as he heaved, chest expanding and contracting desperately to recover after the furious sparring session he had just had. It had been a while since he had been so challenged; for the first time in a while, exhilaration ran through his veins.

“You’re good,” his opponent panted from beside him, similarly sprawled out on the floor. “What’s your name?”

Well. Here it came. But he had promised. “Hoseok,” he replied, slowly pulling himself into a sitting position as he did. “Shin Hoseok.” Then it occurred to him to ask. “You?”

The other man had sat up as well, and was looking at him curiously now, brow furrowed. “Son Hyunwoo. Captain of this club.” Hesitation. “You’re not… from around here.”

Hoseok leaned back on his arms, speaking to the empty hall. It was easier if he didn’t have to watch the incredulity when it happened. “Not in a manner of speaking, no,” he answered easily. “I’m from the future.”

That got him a snort. “Is that what you tell people who make fun of your lousy Korean?”

“Hey! Don’t be rude, I could be older than you!”

The eyeroll was almost audible. “Not if you’re from the future, you aren’t.”

He had a point. Hoseok huffed, huffily. “Well, I am,” he said. “Wait, does that mean you believe me?”

He had turned around in his haste, and so caught the considering look in Hyunwoo’s eyes when asked. “I suppose,” he said slowly, mouth pursed, “That you haven’t given me any reason not to.”

Hoseok scrambled to his feet. “I can show you!” he said, perhaps more excitedly than he should, “I - I have to get back, anyway, I’m sure you’ll believe me when I just go” - he snapped his fingers - “in front of your fries.”

“Fries?” Hyunwoo asked.

“ - Eyes, eyes. Sorry, I barely speak Korean at home.” Pause. “I’m sure you can tell.”

Then Hyunwoo laughed, and something grew in Hoseok’s chest, a pride that he had been behind that sound. His next question was unexpected. “You say you’re going. Will you be back, then?”

Hoseok blinked. A smile stole across his face, rounding his cheeks. “It was a good match. Next week?”

Hyunwoo reciprocated the expression, albeit in a far more moderate manner. “I’ll hold you to that, then.”

Hoseok beamed, then, and pushed up his sleeve, casting Hyunwoo a slightly apologetic look preemptively for the disapproval he knew the breach of attire rules would elicit. Then he took hold of the watch, and adjusted the dial. _2045, 2046, 2047._

“Here I go,” he said, nose scrunching, and in a flash, he was gone.

 

-

 

_March 8th, 1974_

 

“No way,” Changkyun said, eyes wide, but tone otherwise closer to impressed than genuinely shocked. He peered forward to examine to watch in Minhyuk’s hands. “This thing” - here he tapped its face, lightly - “lets you travel to any time you want?”

Minhyuk exhaled in amusement through his nose. “Yeah, if this is 1974, then it most certainly does that,” he replied, watching the way Changkyun’s fringe fell into his eyes, softening the pronounced line of his nose. “Which is why those guys are after me, I think.” Clearing his throat, he sat back so there was some distance between them both. “You don’t seem too surprised, actually.”

The other boy shrugged. “The world is full of some weird shit,” he said by means of explanation. “Like how I. Well. This might sound kinda strange, but you did just tell me you’re some kind of time traveler, so. I guess you have no right to judge me if I say this.” He stopped there, though, and turned to look at Minhyuk, squinting adorably.

“But the thing is, you see, I _am_.” Minhyuk grinned, teasing. He gave in to the urge to tap Changkyun on the nose. Watched as his lashes danced, eyes crossing as they followed the motion.

Then he sat back, leaning on his hands as he traced the dark swirls on the concrete ceiling. “So…” he started, “Are you actually going to say it?”

“I was _getting_ to that,” Changkyun grumbled, but he was smiling. “Anyway. Uh. Yeah. I kind of… Knew you’d be here?” he hedged, end of the sentence turning up so much it was as if he was asking Minhyuk to confirm it.

“Sounds crazier now I’ve said it out loud, but like. Well.” He groaned, like he couldn’t believe what he was about to say next. “I sorta… had a dream.”

Minhyuk blinked, rapidly. Thought of warm skin, like an answer. His voice squeaked a bit when he said, trying too hard for nonchalant and missing by a mile, “That’s very believable.”

“Really? Wh -” There was the unmistakable sound of footsteps, echoing down a nearby corridor. Changkyun’s head whipped around as he scrambled into a standing position, already extending a hand that Minhyuk took. There was no question as to what they would do next.

“Run.”

 

 

-

 

 

_August 1st, 1991_

 

Another match. Today - unlike the intervening week - Hyunwoo had beaten him, and Hoseok, nearly undefeated in his own club, somehow felt secure in the knowledge. Something about the venture being worthwhile, perhaps. He had ignored the announcements, now periodic, to visit this time again. He told himself the challenge was the only reason he persisted.

“Can I ask you a question?” he voiced aloud, in order to distract himself from his increasingly loud mental monologue.

Hyunwoo cast a look over at him, unreadable. “Sure.”

He thought about the photograph, the once-and-never-again. “What… why do you practice Kendo?”

Abruptly, Hyunwoo laughed. “What kind of job interview question is that?”

Hoseok flushed, but was unwilling to explain himself further. He figured _I know what becomes of you, and you seem like this now but never practice again_ would probably be a disturbing thing to hear. “Nothing, I just…”

What could he say? He mulled it over for a second. _Why, indeed_. He opted for a measure of truth. “In… my time,” he started carefully, “I am a lot like you. I think.”

Hyunwoo raised his brows. Nodded silently, an indication to carry on.

“But I’m. Not sure if I know why I do it, anymore.” This much, at least, was true enough. “Sometimes it feels as if I’m only still here because of all the time I’ve already spent practicing it.” Then, a white lie. “So I was wondering if you might have any, uh, light, to shed on that.”

If anything about the explanation seemed contrived or stilted, Hyunwoo gave no indication. “A reason, huh,” he muttered, thinking. “I suppose… to me, it is a metric by which I can better myself. Where hard work is the reason I can be considered strong.”

When he smiled his eyes creased into crescents, teeth a sun set into his face. “Did I get the job?”

 _So it has a personal importance. And yet…_ “Huh,” Hoseok mock-pouted. “I ask you a genuine question, and you mock me. What does a person have to do to get some _respect_ around here?”

Hyunwoo sounded strangely sober when he replied. “I do respect you, though.” He frowned. “Should I stop it, then?”

Something began to rattle about in Hoseok’s chest. “No, no,” he said, hurriedly, both hands coming up in a placating motion. “I was joking. I - uh, know you do. Or. That sounded presumptuous of me, but what I meant to say was.” He inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “I know you wouldn’t treat someone poorly.”

Then he glanced up at the dojo clock, and cursed quietly. “I have to go,” he said, apologetically, “I have class tomorrow - in my time, anyway - and I haven’t started on any of my assignments, so -”

Hyunwoo tilted his head imperceptibly. “Does time pass exactly in the same manner when you are here?”

He nodded in response. “Minute for minute. If I leave at 5pm, and I spend three hours here, when I get back it’s 8pm on the same day.” Thoughtfully, “...No give without a take, I guess.”

“I see.” Hyunwoo said, nodding very slightly. “Then I will see you next week?”

“You know it,” Hoseok said, and turned to walk away, sleeve already pushed up. Hyunwoo did not look as he stepped out of this time, and back into his own.

 

-

 

_March 8th, 1974_

 

“Here,” Changkyun muttered, lowly, as he slipped, sideways, into a narrow gap between a stack of recycled bottles in plastic cartons, into a space that opened up into a slightly wider corridor. “This should be fine, for a while. There are other ways in, but it’ll definitely take them time to find them. And I can get us out.”

Minhyuk was panting, doubled over, and nearly fell into Changkyun as he tried to gather himself. The smaller reached out and caught him, anyway, smoothing a hand down his back, seemingly not minding the faint dampness that Minhyuk knew must be on his shirt, dewed as his face was with sweat. “You know this place very well,” he managed, eventually, when he had found his breath and forced it back into his vocal cords.

“I do,” Changkyun confirmed, and a hand had found its way into his hair, brushing it away from his forehead. Minhyuk closed his eyes in bliss at the relief from the heat, and leaned into the touch. “I did grow up here. This is where schoolchildren come to play catch.”

Minhyuk cracked an eye open at that. “Yeah? How does that work out?” When the hand in his hair stilled, he made a grumpy noise, still unaware of their present proximity. Placatingly, it resumed, and he let his eyelids fall shut again, breathing in the still cool air.

“Parents are expats,” Changkyun explained. “Dad works in America right now, actually. Was supposed to move with him earlier this year, but Mum said it didn’t make sense to uproot me in the middle of my degree, so.” He tilted his head, and slanted his gaze towards Minhyuk. “‘S why I’m here now.”

“Cool,” Minhyuk said, inanely, having recovered. He straightened, then, and Changkyun’s hand slowly retracted as he did, the both of them falling briefly silent with the realisation of their position. “I, uh, just graduated. In my time, I mean. Work in a cafe.”

“Yeah?” Changkyun mumbled, and he wasn’t looking him in the eye, gaze somewhere lower. “Means we’re not too far off in age. That’s - that’s good.” When he exhaled it sounded like a low laugh, and it rumbled in Minhyuk’s chest.

“Uh, listen, you know I told you about a dream, right?”

Minhyuk was watching Changkyun watch him, and licked his lips to see the way the other boy’s lashes fluttered, once. “I think I had a similar one,” he confessed, quietly, “I know how this goes.”

“No way,” Changkyun said, again, eyes widening as he finally looked up. Made eye contact. “Cool, cool.”

Then it was silent. He laughed again. It was nervous. “So, can I?”

In this time - this life? - he didn’t really know him. But there was an unmistakable sense that he should, or did. It was enough. Minhyuk leaned in first, one hand finding his waist, the other cradling his cheek. “Be my guest,” he murmured, and the space between them fell to zero.

 

-

 

_December 15th, 2015_

 

It didn’t seem to make a difference how hard he ran. Every time, the same thing happened - the switch on the watch was a dial to reset, a replay mark on a video that looped from the same start point again and again. Kihyun landed, and began to run, and knew he would never make it in time.

The _concept_ of time began to elude him. It sank in, then - that he would have to live this day in detail, now remembering in harsh focus the way the sun highlighted the lines of the highway, the endless road, the brilliant yellow rushes laughing against the clear blue sky as a part of his world was rent from him, and he was helpless but to watch.

It was the fifth? - sixth? - maybe twelfth, he honestly couldn’t remember - time, and when his feet touched the ground Kihyun collapsed, knees surely bruising as they hit the concrete. Again, like it did every time, Jooheon’s second-hand Hyundai careened by, and it was all he could do to squeeze his eyes shut, to look away.

It didn’t matter, anyway. On the backs of his lids the scene replayed itself as vividly as if he were watching it happen. He felt, more than perceived, the crash, and it cut him anew, a wound carved upon a scar that had not truly begun to heal.

This time, he did not hasten immediately to the reset. He closed his eyes, rocking back on his heels so he could gather his knees to his chest. Wrapped his arms across in a fold, rested his head against them, and allowed himself to cry.

 

\---

 

With stable hands he tightened a bolt, mind racing ahead of him as he did. If he just fine-tuned the controls - if he could let Kihyun timeleap an hour earlier - he might be able to solve things, yet. Silently he prayed for him to have the strength to last.

His fingers were sore. The clock was ticking. He carried on.

 

\---

 

_March 8th, 1974_

 

“Is it strange,” Minhyuk murmured against Changkyun’s temple, “That I feel like I know you? That I’ve - I’ve known you before, or something, in a life before or - that we’ve definitely met, god, I know I -” He pulled away, laughing at himself, “I know it sounds weird or mad. I promise I don’t mean it like that, it’s just…”

He watched the floor, and let the other boy take his hand, curling it between both of his own. “I swear, I don’t normally run around kissing boys I meet on time travel excursions, I’m just a humble barista.”

Changkyun’s hands were rough, but warm. They felt like his voice sounded when he said, scratchy, “No. I know what you mean.”

Minhyuk peered up through his lashes, and met his gaze head-on. “You do?” He couldn’t hide the strange hope that was threatening to burst forth, even with the nagging reminder that they were somehow cornered in this space. The distant countdown he was pretending he couldn’t hear.

An inhale. “Yeah,” Changkyun breathed, and it felt like an admission. He bowed his head, looking again at Minhyuk’s larger hand between his own, threading his fingers through them idly, bending his fingers for want of something to do. “It feels like…” His fidgeting ceased, and, linking their hands together securely, he pulled their joined palms to rest above his chest.

“Like I’ve held you like this, before. Like…”

“Like we’re supposed to be here,” Minhyuk finished, quietly. It didn’t need to be a question.

 

-

 

_August 22nd, 1991_

 

The fading afternoon’s light filtered in through windows set high into the side of the dojo. Fell, docile, upon two figures, an arm’s width apart. Hyunwoo’s hands lingered too-close to Hoseok’s waist, tethered to him by the string of his breastplate. If he breathed those fingers would brush his back through his robes, and so he held still, afraid to disrupt the fragile peace.

(“Hyung,” Hoseok had found himself calling from the locker room, “This is a bit embarrassing, but.”

Hyunwoo’s voice had floated back, carrying with it a heavy note of amusement. “What, can’t get into your uniform?”

An awkward pause. “Well,” he had hedged, “Actually. Um. Yes.” Today his fingers kept slipping, unable to grasp the strings to tie the requisite knot.

“Come into the hall,” Hyunwoo had said, suddenly materialising in the doorway. There was a funny sense of deja vu about it all. “I’ll help you.”)

Now he regretted how readily he had asked for help, with the way his heart was threatening to break free of his chest, shatter his ribcage with its thundering. Slowly he turned his head to the side, slanting his gaze backwards. Hyunwoo’s hands were large at the small of his back, and taking far too long.

He thought he should say something, then, wondering if this impossible tension was entirely in his head. If he had imagined the deliberateness he thought he felt, the lingering warmth even when they had pulled apart.

But then he blinked, and Hyunwoo was lightly punching him in the arm, saying it was done, and the moment was abruptly over, so completely past it was like it had never happened at all. Quickly they took their positions, and on a count, the match began.

This time, it felt different. There was a heat in the clash of their shinai, a resolute refusal to give. They met, then drew apart, then converged again. Hoseok gritted his teeth and drew back, and feinted a bodyhit that he tried to convert to a headstrike, expecting nonetheless to be blocked.

But the hit landed, thudding neatly against the side of Hyunwoo’s mask, and a voice rang out. “One point to Shin.”

Hoseok pulled himself back into a resting stance, an eyebrow raised in challenge. Their gazes met, and they nearly leapt back into battle when Hoseok suddenly hesitated, a silhouette in the borders of his vision.

“Wait,” he muttered, holding a hand up, sword falling from its upright position. Turned, to where he was positive he would meet the figure of a man, watching them both, a sudden referee for their personal match. Without so many words Hyunwoo seemed to understand, and relaxed as well, turning in the direction from which the voice had come.

But there was nobody there.

It was unsettling. Not in a threatening way, but as if - as if there was something he had forgotten, and their unknown visitor was the key. Hoseok reached up, and back, and loosened his visor, removing it as he spoke. “Did you see him, too?”

Hyunwoo followed suit. Nodded once. “Somebody was there.” His gaze seemed far, somewhere beyond this dimly lit dojo where light seemed to hesitate to fall. Then he said, voice very low, “I feel like I’m missing something.”

Something about the pitch of his voice urged Hoseok closer, raising a hand that hovered between them both until, frustrated, he let it fall uselessly to the side. His fist clenched involuntarily when he said, softly, “Me too.”

The fight had left them both. Hyunwoo took a step towards him, and he reached out, fingers trailing boldly across Hoseok’s sleeve, never once venturing to make contact with the skin that lay underneath. Hoseok felt his breath hitch, anyway.

“Hoseok,” Hyunwoo muttered, his name gentle in his mouth. “Why don’t we just - talk?”

It felt like a storm was riding in. He released the breath he hadn’t noticed had built inside his lungs, threatening to tear them apart.

“Yeah,” he agreed, in a gust. “Let’s.”

 

-

_December 15th, 2015_

 

Exhaustion was weighing down his entire being, inundating every single one of his bones. By now he knew the scene down to the second, could recount effortlessly every detail. He turned his head before a chill breeze blew, anticipating instinctively the way it would bite at his eyes, the way it had in every iteration before. And if he looked he knew he would be able to tell when the golden stalks would sway left, then right.

As he ran he inhaled, then exhaled, and counted down to when a crow would caw as it soared overhead, foreboding. _This time_ , he told himself, _this time – if I don’t do it, I’ll._

(Let him go.)

He didn’t finish the thought. Couldn’t afford to, and as he ran as hard as he could already he could see that this wasn’t it, either. That this time would not be what he wanted it to be. There was the screeching of tires against asphalt, the distant shape of metal glinting in the sun. A man, standing on the highway –

Deliriously, Kihyun whipped his head around. He hadn’t been there, not the first time, and not all the times after. Distinctly, he did not belong in this scene. But he seemed familiar, inexplicably so -  

(A curt knock on faded plastic. A blazered hand, an unwanted gift. A shadow carved out of daylight.)

He spun fully, coming to a stop to face the man. There was something in his face that ate at Kihyun’s consciousness, like there was more to him than that encounter. He opened his mouth once, then shut it again. Said, “You –”

The stranger’s eyes widened as he turned. “You can see me?” He breathed, and the only word Kihyun could place to his expression was that he looked afraid.

Briefly he felt sympathetic, but quickly this was replaced by the countdown inside his head. “It was you,” he said, the words falling out faster than he could grab hold of them. “You gave me the watch.”

For a while the man looked away, in the direction Jooheon’s car had passed. Would pass, every time. With a start Kihyun realised that the wheat fields had fallen completely still, as had the clouds in the sky. Eventually, he said, “I did.”

At the confirmation Kihyun surged forwards, unable to help the way his hands curled around one of the stranger’s forearms. “Then,” he begged, “Then surely you can do something. You can – you can change this.”

A shadow passed, heavy, over his features. He looked at Kihyun, who gripped tighter. Did not shake him off as his gaze dropped. “I’m not sure,” he said, softly. “I’m not supposed to – you weren’t supposed to see me. I don’t exist in this timeline.”

Kihyun’s head was spinning. “But if you made these,” he tried, “You have to be able to do something. I can’t – there’s nothing I can – _Please._ ”

Still, the man did not move. “Something worse might happen,” he said. “And it might be irreparable.”

But so was Jooheon’s death, so many times over. The weight of it was too much to bear. “I’ll take whatever,” Kihyun said, “Just - just _do_ something, please. He was my best friend – it was my fault, I.” He breathed. “I would do anything.”

The stranger looked at him, gaze slow. There was an understanding there. Kihyun untangled himself, then, and stood to look at him squarely. Then he said, again, “Please.”

The furrow between his brows grew only deeper, but he nodded. Raised his arm, shaking his sleeve to reveal the watch that rested there. Brought his other hand to his wrist, and then the world fell out from under them, opening up to swallow them whole.

 

\---

 

If he had drawn the Ace of Spades, he would have been able to find the two, and then the three, and then in sequence _four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten_. The royal cards, _Jack, Queen, King._ Then the rest would fall into place, suit by suit, the syncopating beats of parallel melodies winding into a song. Minhyuk, the Jack of Hearts. Jooheon, Queen of the same.

In Solitaire the threads were made to unravel, if only you pulled right, and things would find their way.

(Hyunwoo, King of Clubs.)

In a classroom somewhere they sat, after school, a pack of cards bought from a local convenience store. Innocuous, straightlaced Kihyun ( _King of Diamonds_ ) ushered in in a hoodie zipped up to hide their uniform, the cashier a dead-eyed university student who rung up the purchase without batting so much as an eyelash.

“We don’t have to break school rules to play cards, you know,” he had grumbled as he came out, tossing the pack into Minhyuk’s grabby hands. He burrowed his chin (all walnut-like, when he pouted) deeper into the hood of his jacket. “There’s seven of us. That’s seven houses, seven potential cardplaying venues _right_ there.”

Hoseok ( _Ace of Spades_ ) had appeared out of nowhere and hooked a beefy arm around Kihyun’s shoulders, drawing him in and using his tiny shoulder as a head rest as he did. “But it takes the fun out of it, Kyun-ah,” he’d reasoned, very reasonably. “What’s the point of being in our final year if we can’t risk expulsion by being caught doing something extremely pointless on school grounds?”

“As a wise man once said, only the truly brave know fear,” Changkyun ( _Jack of Spades_ ) had piped in, sagely, slinging himself about Kihyun’s other side. “Well. I think I got that off Minhyuk-hyung’s blog, but anyway.”

There had been talk of playing Blackjack, or Hearts, but in the end Hyungwon watched from his perch, sitting back-to-front on a classroom chair, as the other six of them collectively tried to solve a game of Solitaire. It had taken half an hour of googling for them to remember how to lay out the stacks, and then another fifteen for them to settle on a play style; at some point, Jooheon groaned aloud, asking why they had to do this when the computer version was _right there_.

“He has a point,” Hyunwoo remarked, the only sensible person in the room. “If we were going to risk expulsion for doing something stupid we should at least play a suitably badass game.”

“Badass?” Hoseok chirped, voice cracking high in the way it did when he found something incredibly funny. “Nobody says that unironically anymore. Oh Papa Bear, never change.”

Over the sound of Hyunwoo’s confusion ( _Why would you ever say that ironically? It’s cool, isn’t it?_ ) Hyungwon remembered shaking his head simply when asked if he wanted to join, claiming he didn’t get the rules. In truth he had been stricken by an embarrassing surge of melancholy, and was content to watch his friends bicker in the orange light of the late evening, basking in their warmth like a cat napping in the sun.

But that was then, and this - this was the wrong game. In the here and now, all bets were off when he didn’t know how to play.

 

\---

 

_December 19th, 2047_

 

Hoseok shut his laptop and shoved it into his bag, throwing in after it his water bottle and text reader. After some consideration he extracted the crumpled mess that was his sweater and pulled it over his head, anticipating the January frost outside. Then he slipped his arms into his coat, and slung his backpack over one shoulder, and set out of the lecture hall, smiling at his classmates as he left.

He would get home just in time to put his bag down, pick up his equipment, and warp to 1991. He thought that maybe they would talk again, after. Lost in thought, he barely noticed when he walked straight into somebody, and glanced up, distractedly, an apology already on the tip of his tongue.

“Shin Hoseok, Social ID K6830584C?”

He froze, the words dying in his throat. Took a step back, then another, but when he turned there were another two men there, identically dressed and nearly-faceless in their dark suits. They closed in upon him, and he shrank backwards, hands held up in preemptive, placating surrender.

“I – I’m sure there’s been a mistake, or something, I haven’t done anything wrong, I –“

They seized him, wrestling him against a wall. Hoseok put up very little fight, knowing already that there was very little he would be able to say or do in his defence. “Then we are sure you will not mind us taking this,” said another one of them, or perhaps the same one. They all sounded alike. A hand closed around his wrist.

“Please,” he tried, even as it took everything in his being not to struggle and make things worse. “I have to – somebody is waiting for me –”

“Time travel is not allowed,” intoned the voice, snapping the watch off as he spoke. “To do so is an offence punishable with a fine, or imprisonment, or both.”

The tension rushed out of him at once. “No, I – I can’t have a criminal record,” he mumbled, letting them take the device, even as his heart threatened to hollow itself out inside his chest. There was a future he had, waiting for him, even if it pained him to follow it. “I – I have to get a scholarship, please…”

One (All) of them regarded him, impassively. “You will not be convicted; we did not catch you in the act.” A pause. “Consider this a warning. But we will be taking this.” He held up the watch at eye level, almost taunting. Hoseok looked away.

“Okay. Fine.” He bit his lower lip, anxious. Defiant, he muttered a “You can go now,” knowing even as he did that he was in the wrong. Then he closed his eyes, and let his head fall, trying to erase the sense of loss of something that he had never been meant to have.

When he finally opened them again what seemed like hours later, he was alone in the street, and the air had grown cold. In the west the sun had begun to set. It made his shadow long, a morose gash in the ground that grew longer still as he took the long way home.

 

-

 

_December 15th, 2015_

 

Kihyun fell into time, and blinked terribly as he adjusted. Those were his hands on the steering wheel, and this was still Jooheon’s car. Puzzled, he shook his head free of the thought. _Still?_ _As compared to what?_ He snorted to himself as he took a turn onto the highway. _When would Jooheon’s car_ not _be his?_ Sometimes his thoughts eluded even himself.

From the passenger seat Jooheon glanced over. “You okay, dude?” he asked, face in that perpetual half-grin, the one with the dimples that warmed Kihyun’s heart without fail. “Eyes on the road, remember?”

He laughed, rolling his eyes as he cruised at a very manageable peace down the open road. “I thought _I_ was the grandpa here, grandpa,” Kihyun quipped, glancing in the rearview mirror as he switched lanes. “You said you had to stop around here, right?”

Jooheon beamed in reply. “Yeah, gotta pick up some stuff from this supposedly great vintage shop. And don’t give me that look. I’m _Christmas_ shopping.”

Kihyun hummed. “I don’t suppose you’re getting me something?” At Jooheon’s stricken expression he let out a wholehearted guffaw, the car now stopped on the side of the road. “Oh my god, you’re so predictable. I promise I won’t look it up and find out what you’re getting.”

When Jooheon pouted it was something fierce, and the sun itself would be hard-pressed to erase the storminess of his mood. “You _suck_ , stop ruining your own surprises!” He had gotten out of the car and shut the door, and was now bending down to speak to Kihyun through the rolled-down window.

“Got it, got it,” Kihyun laughed, already checking his mirrors for any cars as he got ready to pull off. “I won’t tell a soul.” To punctuate his point he mock-zipped his lips, and threw away the imaginary key.

“ _Hyuuuuung_ ,” Jooheon whined, but he was smiling as he did. “You’re picking me up later, yeah? Don’t forget!” He took a step back from the car, safely off the road, and began to wave him off as Kihyun drove away.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, smiling as he switched gear and pulled off. In the direction of town the glare of the sun was harsh against his eyes. Absently he reached up and flipped the shade down, picking up speed as he did. He would meet a friend for lunch while waiting for Jooheon, maybe stock up on more groceries for their flat. They were running out of eggs.

Out of nowhere a flash of brown appeared from amongst the tall grass, racing across the road. Eyes wide, Kihyun reflexively swerved, squeezing his eyes shut as he did. He heard the tires shrieking. Wondered if the animal had survived. Then there was an overwhelming sense of vertigo, the cresting rush of blood in his ears, and then, all at once, nothing but the inky dark.

 

-

 

_March 8th, 1974_

 

They were running, again. In the endless maze Minhyuk clung tightly to Changkyun’s hand, trusting him to lead them both in the labyrinth of alleys, backlit by dusk.

“Do you think they’ll give up?” Minhyuk asked, feeling oddly childlike, even knowing that he was – timelines aside – the older of them both. He wanted to believe. “If we keep running – do you think - will they leave us alone?”

Changkyun’s grip tightened around his, their palms pressing so closely they were one. His uneven breaths punctuated the still air. “I hope so.”

The men had split up. So there were three of them, somewhere in the twining paths, and as they ran they would meet them briefly, narrowly avoiding confrontation by racing as rapidly as possible in the opposite direction. Thus far they had escaped thrice – it felt like they were on borrowed time that was bound to run out, and even as he hoped Minhyuk felt despair settle deep in his gut, heavy with the weight of knowing.

He snapped out of thought as Changkyun tugged him lightly down a side passage, turning again only to realise – “Ah, shit,” the younger boy mumbled, “They must’ve built this in the past decade or so. It’s a dead end, we’ll just have to turn –”

 _Back_ , he was going to say, except that way stood the men in suits, advancing rapidly upon them. Minhyuk felt the rocks in his gut turn to lead, and as the hammering in his chest grew impossibly louder it was all he could do to hold on to be grounded.

Then it struck him. Right hand still tangled in Changkyun’s, he scrabbled for the watch with his left, pulling it out so he could see the surface. If he could leap through time while holding it then surely – surely it was worth a shot, with Changkyun’s hand in his. But there was something odd with the display – the dials were swinging this way and then that erratically, the number wheels click-clacking wildly through an array of numbers, none of them the current year.

Still, their pursuers were right upon them. Thumb smoothing desperately over where their hands joined, he clumsily released the catch on the knob and began to adjust it shakily, unable to tell whether it was working or not. Gradually as he turned the number closer to 2017 the oscillations seemed to dwindle, and he dared allow himself to hope.

“Minhyuk.” Changkyun’s voice was a whisper, a quiet quake in his bones. He raised his head to find himself looking up the barrel of a gun, and through the haze of fear he only just barely noticed that it wasn’t pointed at him, but at the watch in his hands.

Panic shook him. Eyes screwed closed, he squeezed the button in his grip. There was a ponderous moment, and then the sensation of being disassembled and rearranged all at once settled upon him, the squeeze of the time warp taking him fully in its hold. In the briefest instant in limbo he dared to think that the both of them had made it.

But when he was spat out at the other side, in the exact same spot he had been in when he had first moved through time, he was alone, as if booted rudely from a dream. Bringing the watch into view revealed a singular bullet hole splintering its glass face. There was no exit wound.

When he glanced up the bus stop display said _65N: Arriving_. He waited until it came. Got on. Sat quietly the whole way home. Got off. Walked the short distance to his small, empty apartment. Let himself in.

Lay down in the dark, in the twilit silence, and fell asleep fitfully, dreaming of nothing at all.

 

-

 

_February 24th, 2017_

 

The day was long.

Tucked into his seat in the booth, Jooheon pulled the sleeves of his sweater over his fingers, humming an old pop song under his breath as he tried to keep himself alert. Tried not to let his mind wander too far, lest it bring up things he’d rather forget.

On the hook on the back of the door, strap overlapping that of his satchel, hung his camera, an outdated but charming old thing. He’d taken it upon himself to learn how to use it, ever since it had fallen to be kept as his own.

After work he planned to go on a small shoot. In the evenings the local parks grew quiet and still, and he had found that under all of that lay an unassuming beauty that often coloured beautifully on film. Kihyun used to say that, all the time, and now he finally understood what he’d meant.

It was comforting. Jooheon looked forward to the hours after his shift, when he could retrace the memory of a friend. It kept him alive to him, softened the ugly blow of loss. And it would come, but for now, all he could do was wait.

 

-

_August 27th, 2017_

 

A shadow passed by on the street outside. Minhyuk turned, abruptly, and nearly hit his head on the spout of the espresso machine as he did so. Instinctively he grabbed at it, but continued to crane his neck, looking – thinking he might’ve seen –

“You okay, dude?” Junhui’s large cat-eyes surfaced in his vision, peering attentively at his temple where the lever had glanced off his skull. “You look like you saw a ghost, or something.”

Minhyuk faltered. Thought about the man in the suit who had sat by the window, the boy in a rooftop maze. The watch with a shattered face that lay in his pocket, a pointless relic he couldn’t let go. _Depends on what you mean by ghost._

“No, I’m good,” he said, weakly. “It’s just that I thought I saw….”

Junhui brightened, leaning his weight against the edge of the counter. “I know this one! Let me guess! It was the handsome dude from the other day, right?” He gestured as he spoke. “Thiiis tall, doe eyes, perfect anime boy nose?”

Minhyuk blinked, startled. “I,” he said, because it wasn’t entirely untrue. He floundered briefly, conflicted, and settled for, “What kind of description is _anime boy nose?_ ”

His coworker hummed smugly, crossing his arms over his chest as he sniffled in a distinctly character-like fashion. “I _knew_ it”, he cooed.

Curiously, Minhyuk tilted his head, neither confirming nor denying his friend’s suspicions.

“You were out of it the whole day after,” Junhui supplied, “Kept glancing out of the window like that – with the moony eyes.” To accentuate his point he brought his hands to his eyes and pulled them apart, staring at Minhyuk frightfully. When he let go he smiled crookedly, snaggletooth coming to the fore. “You only ever do that when you’re, like, really hung up on someone.”

The smile on his face was starting to feel a little strained. Minhyuk tried desperately not to think of a warm hand in his, a low voice leading him in the dark, and opted for laughing instead, hoping to whoever might be listening that Junhui wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. “Yeah,” he said, like it was an admission, “He was _so_ cute, though.”

Junhui patted his head in consolation, then held out his arms in welcome. “Give me a hug. It’s okay, you’ll find someone new.” He declared this grandiosely, but when Minhyuk toddled forward into his span the hug was warm, and genuine, and he let himself lean into it, forgetting for a while the insistent tug in his chest that made him feel like he had lost.

“Nobody will ever be as beautiful as anime nose boy,” he mumbled, playing along, eyes fluttering closed as his friend began to pat his head gently. “How will my heart ever recover?”

“Excuse me. I’m _right_ here,” Junhui crowed. Then he pulled apart, and held Minhyuk at arm’s breadth. Looked him in the eyes, and said, “But for real. If there’s anything up… You know you have me, right?”

Unconsciously Minhyuk’s hand reached into his pocket, traced the shattered watchface. “I know,” he said, softly. “Thanks.” Then he smiled, and hoped that soon he would be able to mean it.

 

-

_January 5th, 2048_

 

“Coach, can I ask you a question?”

Coach Hanagawa turned, tilting his head in question. “What is it?”

Hoseok took a deep breath. It didn’t do to be nervous, not now. “It’s about – one of the alumni of this dojo. Um, the winner of the 1991 Championships, to be exact.”

The old man furrowed his brow, but nodded for Hoseok to go on. Considering.

“I just wanted to know – what happened to him?” Before a silence could fall he hastened to fill the space. “It’s just that – the other champions, we always know what happened to them. They went on to become great practitioners. It’s just – that guy, he’s the only one who…” Disappears. Falls out of history. Becomes nobody, in the grand face of things.

Coach Hanagawa tilted his head, but answered nonetheless. “Son Hyunwoo quit immediately after championships, that year,” he said, simply. “It was all over the news back then, actually.” He threw his head back, and barked a laugh. “Well. Kendo news, anyway.”

Hands twitching, Hoseok tried not to look too eager for information. “If you don’t mind my asking, coach,” he prompted, carefully, “Why?” He could not have been more transparent. But he had to know.

“Something about not wanting to spar with anyone else after finding a worthy partner, I think,” his coach muttered, eyes distant with memory. Then he snapped back to the present, eyes shrewd. “Why, would you like to meet with him? He might have some wisdom for you yet.”

Something twisted in Hoseok’s chest at the reminder that he might still be out there, somewhere. He wondered how he had lived his life.  

Wanted to say sorry, for making him wait.

Hoseok shook his head abruptly, and let out a laugh that was two sizes too big for the conversation. “Ah, no, I was just wondering,” he said, bashfully. “I wanted to know more about all the previous winners, that’s all.” Then, laying it on thick, he added, “I have to do well in the upcoming rounds, after all.”

Seemingly buying it, his coach looked him over approvingly. “You,” he said, not without warmth, “I expect big things of you.”

The great weight of expectation. Hoseok let it push him into a full bow, then unfolded respectfully after an appropriate pause. “Thank you, coach,” he said, humbly. “I promise not to let you down.”

 

\---

 

Here, the rain never fell. Now it seemed almost kind, if he took it as a metaphor for chance instead of trial.

 _As many possibilities as there are drops of rain. The near improbability of getting it right_.

And yet…

Reaching out, Hyungwon let his hand hover about a raindrop, perfectly spherical, quivering in place. Positioned his fingers precisely, index and thumb, around the droplet, and pressed them together, watching as it burst soundlessly into vapour, falling abruptly to the floor.

One down. He would simply have to try again. As he pushed into time, and reached out once more, in the cogs of Chronos there was a click.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'll remember to edit this after reveals but - yes, I do have a deeper theory / story for this, and am intending to build it into a series! I hope you enjoyed reading - I put a lot of thought into this hehe. Please let me know if you liked it! It would mean a lot :}
> 
> (EDIT POST-REVEALS: hehe find me [ on twitter ](http://twitter.com/frogbabey)!!!! please talk to me. i am a lonely froglike creature. xoxo)


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